Hunter was good at what he did, maybe too good. In the woods, the fields, the mountains—no creature was beyond his reach. He was a master of the chase, of the kill. For years, he stalked animals across the land, using their lives as a trophy. He had no remorse for his actions; he believed the world was just a playground for those who could control it. And that meant he was at the top.
But something had started to change. The animals weren't like they used to be. He didn't know what it was exactly. Maybe it was the coldness in their eyes, or how their movements seemed more deliberate, as if they knew exactly what he was doing before he did it.
One evening, after a long hunt, he found himself deep in the forest, well beyond where most hunters dared to go. He had been tracking a massive buck for days, and it had led him into unfamiliar territory.
He didn't care. His only goal was the prize, and he would stop at nothing to get it. The sun was almost gone, and the trees stretched high above him, their black limbs like twisted hands reaching for the last light.
The buck was there, standing in a clearing, its eyes reflecting the last remnants of sunlight. It was larger than anything Hunter had ever seen, its coat darker than night itself. It didn't run, didn't flinch when it saw him. It just stood there, watching.
Hunter raised his rifle, the cold metal against his cheek, the barrel pointed straight at the creature's heart. He squeezed the trigger, but the shot didn't ring out. The gun jammed. Hunter cursed under his breath, yanking at the weapon, but it wouldn't budge.
The buck didn't move. It only stared, those dark eyes somehow piercing through him, making him feel small. Vulnerable.
His heart pounded in his chest. Something wasn't right. This wasn't the usual thrill of the hunt. This was... different.
The buck didn't retreat. It stepped closer, slow and deliberate, as if it was assessing him. The air grew colder, the wind picking up, though the trees didn't sway. It was as if the forest itself was holding its breath. Hunter backed up, fumbling with his rifle, his pulse racing.
That's when he heard it. The low growl. It wasn't the buck—it was something else, something just behind it.
He turned quickly, searching the dense undergrowth for any sign of another predator. But there was nothing.
When he looked back at the buck, it was gone. Not a trace. Just the silence of the forest. But something had changed. The ground felt wrong beneath his feet. He was no longer sure of where he was.
A voice, though not a voice, brushed against his mind. Something primal. Something deep. It wasn't a sound, but an urge.
Run.
Without thinking, he bolted. His legs burned as he crashed through the trees, the forest seeming to close in around him. Branches lashed at his face, but he didn't stop. He had to escape, had to get out.
His heartbeat echoed in his ears, louder than his breath, louder than the sound of his footfalls. The trees seemed to twist as he ran, narrowing the path ahead, pushing him further into the woods. He stumbled, almost falling, but managed to right himself, only to hear it again—the growl. Closer this time.
The ground beneath him shifted, and Hunter stopped. He wasn't sure why. But something told him to turn around. He did.
There, in the clearing, was the buck once more. But it was no longer just a buck. The creature had changed. It was bigger, its body twisted and distorted. The eyes had deepened, no longer the reflection of light but something far more intense, far more knowing.
Its form was wrong, not an animal, but not fully human either. It had become something beyond Hunter's comprehension, something that shouldn't have existed.
Hunter felt the panic rising, but it was too late. The buck, or whatever it had become, charged.
There was no fight, no struggle. Hunter couldn't even raise his rifle. He was too slow. The creature knocked him to the ground with terrifying strength. His breath left him in a rush as claws, sharper than steel, dug into his flesh. His body convulsed, pain overwhelming every sense, every thought.
But then, as the creature tore into him, Hunter did the unthinkable. He didn't die. He could feel it—something inside him was changing. Something dark, something that matched the creature above him.
His vision blurred, the world spinning around him. It wasn't just the pain. It was the change, the transformation. His body... wasn't his own anymore.
The buck's claws ripped deeper, but Hunter didn't care. His mind was fogging, his body disintegrating into something else. He could feel himself becoming the animal, becoming what he had always hunted. He felt himself slipping away, the life he had lived no longer his to hold.
When it was over, Hunter wasn't dead. He wasn't alive. He was something else. His body had been replaced by the very thing he had hunted all these years. A beast, with fur and claws. His mind still lingered, trapped inside, but he could no longer control what he had become.
The first instinct he had was to flee. The urge to run was overwhelming, but there was nowhere to go. The forest was all around him, and he was part of it now, no longer the hunter but the hunted. The very thing he had once stalked. The very thing he had once killed.
As he ran, or rather, as the beast inside him ran, he felt the pull of the land. The urge to survive. To hunt. And it felt... natural. Easy. The old Hunter, the man he had been, screamed in his mind, but it was drowned out by the hunger. It was a cycle, a twisted, brutal cycle. He had become what he had sought to destroy.
The days stretched on. Hunter, now a creature of the forest, hunted. He killed. He felt the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of the kill. But there was no joy in it anymore. He wasn't the one in control. He was a beast, doing what beasts did, compelled by forces he no longer understood.
He never found the end. Because the end, it turned out, was not his to claim. He was part of the forest now. He had become what he hated, and in doing so, the cycle repeated itself. He was no longer the hunter. He was the prey.
Time passed, but the story didn't change. He would rise from the forest, from the earth itself, a new predator—more savage, more vicious than before. He would hunt, and the cycle would continue. Each time he died, he would return, a different form, but always the same, always the same hunger.
There was no escape.
There would never be an escape.
Until the day, the end would come for him—for them all.